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he laughs, the modulator fluctuating briefly, “so greedy. sex isn’t enough for you, huh?”

your head knocks back against the window he had snuck in through, a sudden burst of panic at the exposed glass quickly overridden by the dual stimulation of his gloved digit rubbing tantalizing circles into your clit.

you stifle a sob when he pinches it, cunt drooling around him.

“i’ll ruin your life,” he bites out, voice rising in a way that makes you think he’s grinning, “everyone will know what a slut you are.”

“no, no– i won’t tell!” you plead, eyes rolling back as he rubs your clit in time with his thrusts, “i promise, just wanna know–”

“wanna know who’s giving you such good dick, huh?” he grunts, as you convulse around him, “fuck, you’re choking my cock.”

he shifts, bouncing you a little and pressing you further into the wall, slipping his fingers into your mouth to feel the back of your throat. he should have you suck him off sometime.

your walls are hugging him so goddamn tight, and it’s difficult to focus on ramming into you when his knees are weakening. his tip brushes against that sweet, gummy spot and fuck, your pussy encloses around him like a vice.

“shit,” he grits out, snapping his hips harshly, “such a slut, fuck, sucking me in like a vacuum.”

you barely process his words, barely able to breath with every thrust. he shoves his fingers deeper in your mouth and you gag, drooling all over them.

his head is thrown back, letting out a guttural sound and a brief moment of clarity incepts into your mind the impulse to pull the mask off him.

if he kills you for it at least he fucked you beforehand. besides, you've been as good as dead ever since he caught you at that party the first time and gave into his impulses.

the sudden thought passes quickly, as tears start to bead at your waterline. you cum hard, his fingers in your throat and his cock kissing your cervix. 

he bites down on his lip hard enough to taste copper as he cums as well, a garbed string of curses leaving his lips as you’re stuffed full of his seed, seeping out to form a white ring around the base of his cock.

he hisses lowly, pulling out of slowly once he’s steady enough to. your tongue swipes over the saliva coating your lower lip, fumbling at your top and tugging it down haphazardly.

if it feels this good, how could it possibly be wrong?

“oh, did you hear all that stuff about ghostface?” quinn starts casually.

heard about him? you’ve been around him.

“that’s that serial killer guy, right? doesn’t mindy think it’s ethan or something?”

“oh, yeah,” quinn snorts, “i swear, she’s on crack. ethan’s such a pussy.”

you roll your eyes playfully, “don’t say that…”

“what?” she smiles innocently, “even you can’t deny it, and you’ve got that little crush on him.”

you scoff, “since when?”

“since forever,” she smirks.

“it was one time,” you grouch, “the bottle landed on him, whatever! besides, we didn’t even do anything, we just talked and stuff, it was sooooo awkward.”

“it wouldn’t have been that awkward if you had actually done something,” she snarks.

“you are unbelievable!”

quinn shoves you to the masses immediately at the school sale, tables all up and down the gymnasium littered with accessories and sustenance and… bucket hats.

“so, uh,” you fidget in-place, offering a wan smile to ethan. quinn’ll hound you for proving her right, even more so because if you’re completely honest with yourself, you sort of do have a teeny tiny absolutely massive crush on ethan, “you… you gonna buy one?”

“oh!” he jumps a little, expression adorably flustered for a moment as he whirls towards you, “sorry, you scared me.”

he offers a smile of his own, although it’s a lot sweeter than yours, “i don’t know, they’re a bit… kitsch.”

“It’s fitting,” you proffer.

his brows furrow, “hey, was that a shot?”

“no, no,” you smile, more earnestly now, “you’re far from kitsch.”

he flushes further and you quickly curse your abominable mouth.

“they’d look cute on you.”

stupid fucking mouth.

“...really?” his features soften into a diffident grin, “well, when you put it that way, i really should get it.”

“get it,” you tell him simply, emboldened now, “you’d look… like, really good– well, you always do– wait no, that came out wrong, just ignore everything i did. just get it.”

he glances away from you to conceal his rapidly reddening cheeks.

you swerve the conversation swiftly, “so, which one are you thinking?”

“oh– i, um– i don’t really know, uh,” he’s not nearly as smooth about it as you, stumbling over his words endearingly, “i, uh, i like the one with the little knife. it’s a bit, well, cute and creepy.”

it’s only cute because it’s on you, you want to say, but you think saying that’ll kill both of you.

you nod fervently, “i think it’s nice.”

his gaze dwells on you for enough time that you start to shift from foot to foot “thanks.”

“for what?”

“for…

everything,” he declares, finally. you have no idea what he means.

your mouth is warm and wet around him and the slits for eyes in the damn mask are barely enough for ethan to see the full view, see how pretty you are on your knees, all dolled-up and obedient for ghostface.

he likes to think of himself as separate from ghostface. it’s easier to face you that way.

“fuck, that’s it,” his head is thrown back, as you try to take all of his cock at once, gagging as it hits the back of your throat.

it sends a sick thrill to his head, the prospect of seeing you every day, all self-assured and cleaned-up, and simultaneously sucking him off because of some weird kink for hot murderers. 

fuck, it’s so much better when you don’t know it’s him.

you run your tongue along the vein on the underside of his cock, flattening it against his length. he groans, fingers curling into your hair.

his hips buck up into your mouth, and tears escape from your eyes as you do your best to breathe through your nose.

“oh, shit,” he hisses, balls tightening as he forces you to take it, “just like that, such a good girl.”

you whine around his cock, the vibrations quickly sending him over the edge.  you let his length slip out of your mouth as he strokes himself, his cum falling in reams over your face and chest.

he’s breathing heavily throughout his orgasm, fingers gradually loosening from your hair. you’re so fucking hot, ethan thinks. if only you knew who he was.

“you have economics with ethan, right?” mindy queries.

you glance up at her approaching form, lazily inking out the last of your notes, “oh. uh, yeah.”

“did he go yesterday?”

you frown, “uhh, I don’t really remember.” more like you weren’t there to know.

you rest your pen, turning your chair towards her, “what’s with the sudden interest? quinn didn’t put you up to this, did she?”

“god, no,” she scoffs, “…although you two could be cute together.”

you roll your eyes, as she continues, “it’s just… with all this ghostface stuff— he’s been absent during most of the murders too many times to be a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“you can’t seriously think ethan’s ghostface,” you deadpan, “he’s such a… a… i don’t know, he’s too soft, i guess.”

she cocks her head, “what do you mean?”

“oh, um, well,” you start ploddingly, quickly realizing that you should’ve just kept silent, “ghostface seems like he or she’d be the self-assured type, y’know? hide in plain sight. trying to act the exact opposite of ghostface probably wouldn’t get the killer anywhere. I just feel like, they’d have a little more… grit.”

“you sound pretty sure of yourself,” she remarks.

you shrug, “just my own two cents.”

when she doesn’t make any move to leave, you make a show of returning to your notes, aimlessly rewriting annotations on a few passages you’ve already scanned through.

“…where were you last night?” she asks, finally.

you glance up at her.

“you can’t seriously think i’m ghostface,” by the time the words have left your mouth, you quickly realize that it’s actually a fairly viable conclusion.

“well, you said ghostface needs grit. according to you, ethan doesn’t have that,” she monitors your expressions carefully, “but you do.”

you can’t help the slight relief that breaks into your features. at least she hasn’t caught onto the actual truth, although this isn’t much better.

“i was actually at econ,” you lie, after a moment of contemplation. telling her you were too busy sucking ghostface off is about as bad as directly presenting yourself as ghostface.

she peers at you intently for a few moments, and you can tell she doesn’t believe you. she doesn’t press it any further, however, and she leaves you be, with a low sigh.

ethan is soft and sweet and he tastes like strawberries and when you kiss him you realize, fuck, you do like him.

he tenses immediately, torn between melting into the kiss and having a heart attack from it.

he gets all pliant and blushy in seconds, hands fumbling around your shoulders. you let your teeth graze his lip slightly, relishing the way he sucks in a sharp breath as you step back.

“so,” you start kittenishly, “our first real kiss together, huh?”

he lets out a delirious laugh, “oh, yeah. we, um– last time we got picked for the closet, we just sort of stood around and talked, didn’t we?”

“probably should’ve made out instead,” you answer, “at least we have our chance now.”

his eyes widen, lips parting faintly. he speaks before his brain even fully processes your words, “yes please.”

he’s adorable, you think. you cup his face gently. for a second you want to devour him whole but something prompts you to start slow, lips pressing against his sensually.

his hands linger around your waist, fingertips digging in, as an attempt at self-restraint as he kisses you back. 

you ease his lips apart gently, mapping out his mouth with your tongue. his breathing is ragged all the while, heart pounding so hard you can feel it against you. you kiss him for what feels like forever, but evidently isn’t. he’s babbling, you process faintly. something that sounds faintly like gratitude.

you must’ve reached the seven minute mark, because the closet doors are flung open, to a string of scandalized gasps from your friends.

mindy rolls her eyes as anika squeals, “i’m gonna make a ship name!”

every shift of your hips has his veins dragging against your walls and you quickly realize that riding ghostface is his only weakness.

“f-fuck…” he exhales shakily, hands half-fisted in the sheets. you roll your hips again, eliciting another trembling breath from him.

“let me take it off,” you murmur.

“this again?” he sighs, distastefully, although it’s quickly undermined by the quiet whimpers he lets out as you adjust your position atop him. 

it’s jarring to you, for a moment, the unfamiliar way his control starts to slip and he’s so much more sensitive. you decide to have your fun with it, a predominantly horny wave of self-assurance swelling within you, throbbing alongside ghostface’s cock. he must’ve discarded his voice modulator at some point, but still you can’t quite place his voice, not without his face.

you start grinding slowly, rocking your hips back and forth. his reaction is immediate, fingertips digging into the sheets and muffled sounds from behind the mask. you wonder what he looks like under there, beyond just his face. his expressions, his flushed cheeks, his parted lips. you want to see him lose control.

you reach down, caressing his balls cautiously at first, testing the waters. his breath hitches, hips jerking upwards, prompting a soft moan from you. 

he seems to be fighting with himself to still his hips, and you start to grow more daring, fondling his balls gently. at the same time, you continue your movements. soft whines escape him, sending a dizzying rush of your head at his increased reactivity.

“f-fuck,” he moans, your walls clenching around him tightly, “just like t-that…”

the thought enters your head once more. god, it would be so easy to just take the mask off now that his guard is down.

you start to bounce lightly, his cock pressing into all your sensitive spots. you bite your lip, a fresh wave of slick coating his cock as you rise at the thought of the reactions accompanying his noises.

he barely registers it when the mask is removed and cast away to the side. his hands fly to your arm before he even fully processes it, pawing at it for a few moments as he struggles to focus on anything other than the heat coiling like a fist in his gut.

he blinks blearily. you gaze down at him, lips faintly parted from both pleasure and shock at ethan landry sprawled beneath you in his full unmasked glory. his cheeks flushed a deep hue of feverish red, hair mussed up against his forehead, wide doe eyes glazed over and lolling back slightly. all his bravado seems to vanish in an instant, attempting to bite back his whimpers as the stimulation fails to cease.

the dual sensation proves too much to him after a while, as your fingers continue to stroke his balls, and the only warning you receive is a choked ‘oh, fuck!’ before his hips are thrusting upwards uncontrollably, painting your insides white. you tip over the edge as well, mind a whirlwind of disbelief that dissolves quickly into a punctured ecstasy.

“fuck…” ethan lets out a drawn-out whine as he starts to come down from his orgasm. he’s still in the throes of his high, still rutting like an animal into your pussy, only a little more coherent than before.

he’s surprisingly pliant, as you grasp his jaw and turn his face from side-to-side, eyes absorbing his features incredulously now that you’re not distracted by physical sensation. ethan’s… ghostface?

ethan, who tried to offer you cheetos when you were sad. ethan, who was always lamenting about being a virgin. ethan, who bought bucket hats from a school fundraiser. ethan, who you were making out with literally today.

ethan landry is ghostface. not only that, he’s the one who’s been sneaking into your dorm when he should be killing your friends, the one who’s been stalking you every night, the one who’s been fucking you so good you were willing to hookup with a literal serial killer for the sex.

one thing’s for sure. he’s definitely not a virgin anymore.

“oh my fucking god,” you scramble off of him, “ethan?!”

“surprise,” he offers weakly.

mindy was right. she was right all along. you think you should be horrified.

well, sort of. 

the fucking-a-serial-killer part you don’t mind, but for that serial killer to be ethan of all people? you’re not sure if that should sour or sweeten the deal for you. 

“you’re ghostface,” you say, “you’re… ghostface.”

“you’ve mentioned that a few times,” he murmurs.

“i– you’re ghostface?”

his eyebrows raise, “is that really so hard to believe?”

“i mean, yeah,” you admit, “you’re… ethan. you’re the guy who thought our economics teacher was a student, and stutters around girls (it’s a bit cute, you suppose, but you’ll never tell him that) and asked people for murder party merch for your birthday!”

a unrestrained wave of giddiness washes over him at the prospect of you remembering his fixations, but he suppresses it quickly, “what’s wrong with murder party??”

you ignore him entirely.

“you straight-up thanked me for kissing you!” you recall incredulously, “literally today!”

“the duality of man,” he smiles deceptively. you want to smack him, but you remind yourself quickly that ethan is ghostface, and you should be intimidated by the ghostface part, at least.

what in the world have you gotten yourself into?

“so… am i just supposed to… hide you?” you query tentatively.

he shrugs, “it’s not like you weren’t already doing that.”

“i– yeah, but this is different!” you exclaim, “i have to see you almost every day, they’re gonna find out!”

“so?” he retorts dismissively, “they won’t care if you’re dating me. as long as you don’t mention the ghostface part, obviously.”

“but we’re not dating,” you cut him off.

his gaze darts to you, a soft scoff leaving his lips, “just tell them we are. it’ll keep us both out of trouble.”

“mindy suspects me as well though.”

he frowns, “why?”

“well, she thought it was you at first, and i sort of argued against that,” you cringe a little, remembering it now. a lot has happened in the past few days.

“oh, really?” he gazes up at you intently, and you remind yourself once more that you should be scared, should be panicking because ghostface is still ghostface, even if he also happens to be ethan, “that’s interesting.”

you’re not sure what to make of it. 

“are you, uh… gonna kill me?” you ask slowly.

his eyes widen and he looks genuinely surprised for a moment, before mellowing down as he seems to recall that he is, still, a serial killer, “oh,  right, about that…”

he hesitates briefly, gaze lowering, almost shamefully, “you’re not supposed to be, um– i wasn’t supposed to target you or do anything ghostface related with you.”

“wait, then why…?”

“i’ve had a huge crush on you for a while now,” he confesses. 

it takes you aback, “but how is that… connected?”

“you never seemed to like the dorky ethan or the shy loser or the guy ghostface is supposed to hide behind,” he admits quietly. it’s strange, seeing ethan so depraved and ghostface so vulnerable. makes you wonder who the real one is.

“it– it was an accident at first. i just wanted to see you, that night, while you were, uh, sleeping,” he grimaces, recalling it now, “i didn’t think that you’d be so… responsive to the mask. to… me. i didn’t know how else to get you to like me.”

“but i do like you,” you tell him, “dorky you. i think it’s sweet.”

“more than ghostface me?”

you falter, “well… i mean, up until now, i mostly thought of you and ghostface as separate people. i’m attracted to both, yeah, but i don’t even know who the real ethan is anymore.”

“come and find out,” he declares finally, “if we date, you can be my alibi and i can be whoever you want me to be.”

there’s something in his eyes, something you don’t recognize from ethan or ghostface. something… more profuse.

buy one, get one free, you suppose. 

“deal.”

it works beautifully, to the point that ethan considers sneaking in a few extra kills for the thrill of it. he shouldn’t push it though, he knows, both as your boyfriend and as a killer.

nobody seems to question how often he’s absent anymore, once the possibility of him getting laid is in the picture, and you come to find that the true ethan landry really is the best of both worlds.

your back is arched at an angle that should be unnatural, tears leaking into your blindfold as ethan snaps his hips forward brutally. 

“feels so much better now that you know who it is, huh?” he pants, pressing his chest against your back. he pistons his length into you mercilessly, right hand forcing your hands back and pinning them against your ass.

you sob, the sound muffled by the gag. he laughs, “what’s wrong, baby? too much?”

his hand meets your ass sharply, and the pain mingles with the pleasure almost immediately, dissolving into the heat in your stomach.

it’s too good, too much, but you still can’t help the way you clench around him, sucking him in greedily.

he’s fucking into you with deep, harsh thrusts, tip kissing your cervix. he’s already well-endowed, but he fucks you like he’s trying to compensate for something.

“shit, i’m close,” he pants, thrusting sloppily as his fingers dig into your hips hard. one hand snakes down, rubbing at your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

you bite down on the gag, a sharp cry caught behind it as your orgasm crashes over you. the sensation of your walls spasming proves too much for ethan as well, and he lets a garbed string of words as he floods you with cum. 

he keeps thrusting through your orgasm, gradually slowing down as you both start to come down from your highs. ethan reaches for your gag, removing it gently once he’s regained his ability to use his hands without them shaking. 

you wince as he pulls out, turning over onto your back and sinking into the bed. your eyes slip closed, faintly registering as ethan cleans you both up. you think you’re being carried, lowered into warm water. cleansed. 

suddenly, it’s sweet ethan again, dorky ethan, ethan who started bringing extra snacks for you whenever you were shaken up by the news of another death, presumably inflicted by him.

you’re laid in bed again. you think he goes to shower as well, the sound of running water almost lulling you to sleep before you feel him slip into bed next to you.

your eyes open blearily, faintly making out the lines of your form in the darkness.

“what?” you murmur, when he stares at you for too long.

“nothing,” he whispers, gazing at you fondly, “you just look really pretty right now.”

you can’t help the sleepy smile that forms, warmth blooming in your chest. 

“good night,” you say.

“good night,” he echoes, and you curl a bit closer to him.

Steam curls lazily towards the ceiling, softening the edges of the small bathroom in a way that makes everything look a little fuzzy, like you’re floating through a dream. The water’s hot, almost too hot, but you don’t complain. Heat helps. 

Or, heat is supposed to help. That’s how it works. And maybe, if you keep telling yourself it’s helping, it actually will.

You sink further into the tub, or, more accurately, further into Sam, your knees tucked up in a way that has them poking out from beneath the lavender-scented bubbles. You lean back into him, letting your head tilt to rest on his shoulder, your back pressed against the hard plains of his muscled chest, that still manage to be so soft. 

He smells like your shampoo. It’s comforting, in a way. Distracting, too. Distracting enough that for one blissful second, you’re not lost in the dull, twisting ache low in your abdomen, that drums and pulses in slow waves. It feels like a gut punch—if a gut punch involved those metaphorical fingers curling around your uterus, and clenching it hard enough to burst.

The thought makes you grimace. 

“…You okay?”

His soft voice cuts through the silence, warm, dripping with syrupy-thick concern, his chin tucked around your neck. Behind you, he shifts, careful to not let water slosh over the edge, trailing the palm that was stationed on your ribs across your body in a steady caress. One strong arm drapes around your middle, hesitant at first, like he’s trying to gauge where it hurts, or if his touch could make it worse.

It doesn’t. The pressure is nothing but welcome. You hum, a quiet sound, and he responds by rubbing slow, methodical circles over your abdomen.

“Could be better,” you say, letting out a sullen exhale that tells Sam everything he needs to know. His thumb presses into your side, right where the ache sits its deepest. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low with sympathy. Sympathy that would usually make you scowl, or maybe even deck someone, but coming from him? It just feels sweet. “I know, baby.”

The pain seems to pause for a second with those soft, rhythmic motions; before rearing its ugly head right when you start to think you’ve caught a break. It’s small at first. Easy to ignore.

Then it deepens.

You’re pretty sure day two is designed to find out who the strongest links are, and kill off the rest. ‘Aunt Flo’ must’ve been a bitch. The pressure builds, coiling inwards, slow, almost like some kind of warning, before sharpening in a way that makes you hiss. 

You try to shift, to breathe, Sam’s hand pausing on your abdomen. Pain radiates towards your back, settling at the tail of your spine, rippling in wince-inducing waves. You stretch one leg out, tucking the other further in, like your body can’t decide whether it needs space, or to be curled in so tight that it’s just about impossible for your lungs to contract. 

Behind you, Sam sits frozen. Unsure. His palm is warm on your lower belly, his brows furrowed into a worried frown. He feels your muscles clench, then relax, then squeeze again in a way that he can almost feel, and suddenly, he’s massaging you all over again.

“Hey, shh…” he whispers, a gentle coo, peppering a kiss to your shoulder that’s so soft it just about makes you want to cry. “Do you want me to grab you some ibuprofen? Or… I can make you some tea.” Another kiss. Your throat tightens. “Made that ginger stuff last time. You said it wasn’t half bad.”

His question, while thoughtful, has the opposite effect than he intended, resulting in a frown pulling at your lips.

“No. I’m sick of tea. And pills. And heating pads, and chocolate, and everything else that’ll just disappoint me.” It comes out as a grumble, and you know you’re being a bit of a bitch. But you can’t help it. And Sam, the sweetheart, doesn’t hold it against you. He never does. “I just want you. Here.”

“Okay.” His mouth curves into a gentle smile despite himself, just as he shifts, placing a hot, hard kiss to the column of your throat. Then another. And another. “That’s okay, honey.”

Those kisses, while simply affectionate, manufactured to soothe, have your heart fluttering in your chest. One hand stays heavy on your stomach, fingertips pressing against aches, the other dispatching on its own mission. His palm trails down your side, across the dip of your hip, smoothing along your thigh. So soft, so gentle.

Everything feels slower beneath the water. Warmer. Your body is already so sensitive all over, so when his thumb swipes innocently in a sweet circle on the inside of your thigh, you have to bite back a whine.

But Sam hears it. 

And oh, does he love it.

His eyes widen, not that you can see, but the picture of his face in the back of your mind is one of Sam-Winchester-curiosity, his careful exploration stopping as he studies you. That smart, law-boy brain of his working hard, gears turning, deciding just how much to push. How you’re feeling. What you’re feeling. Because if there’s one thing Sam will never do, it’s make your discomfort worse. 

For a moment, you’re both quiet. Quiet enough that the only sound filling the room is the drip of the faucet you never quite turned all the way off. But when you shift, letting out a shaky sigh, he speaks, voice dropping an octave. “I could… take your mind off things. If you want.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize what he’s hinting at, and when it clicks, your brain seems to short circuit. 

Oh.

You can’t say you hate the idea. Not at all. In fact, if anything, your hormones fluctuating like some fucked-up seesaw only has you craving Sam like goddamn oxygen. And the way he’s been smoothing those greedy hands all over you in that stupidly comforting way for the last half an hour is certainly not helping your case.

But the blood…

“…What?” you whisper, voice coming out in a barely audible squeak.

“You’re hurting,” he says, simply, in that ‘duh’ tone of his that usually has you rolling your eyes. “And… I’ve done some research. Endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine… the best natural pain killers, baby. It can help blood flow, too. Lots of benefits.” He pitches the idea in that passionate way he explains his case studies, all smiles and a sweet, hushed tone. You feel a wave of warmth in your chest.  “And, y’know. I just happen to know a really great way to get ‘em flowing…”

“You’ve done.. research? When, between Economics and Criminal Justice?”

“I have my priorities.”

His hand wanders, just a little lower, skimming along the sensitive expanse of your inner thigh, and the way you squirm is entirely involuntary. Still, it does nothing to melt that tense expression on your face (that, let’s be honest, hasn’t left since the moment you saw the first spot of red on your favourite panties), your next breath coming out shaky.

“Don’t you—I don’t know. Think that’s… gross?”

His fingers stop their path immediately, curling lightly against your soft flesh. It’s a gentle press, just enough to leave pretty dimples, and if it’s designed to distract you, it absolutely works. His hand is big, so damn big, the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers covering most of your thigh. He huffs, which you’re sure is meant to sound scrutinizing, but the Sam equivalent is so stupidly soft that it just makes your chest hurt instead. He certainly doesn’t sound disgusted, but, almost… offended? 

“Gross?” His voice comes out rough, incredulous. “Honey.” He scoffs, lips pressing hard against your shoulder, once, twice, before he trails up to press a kiss to your temple. Softer than the rest. “No. There’s not one thing about you that’s gross, ‘specially not this.”

“Are you sure? I mean, that sounds… it’s messy, Sam.” You tilt your head from where it’s fallen against his shoulder, and his expression is nothing short of sincere. 

“I brought it up. I’m more than sure,” he says, just a touch cheeky, but you know it’s only to soothe your nerves. And, well. It works. “…‘M not gonna make you do anything you don’t want. But… I love you. I love makin’ you feel good. And if it’s going to help…” he trails off, shrugging, bubbles fizzing beneath his elbows. “…Tell me why I wouldn’t want to.”

You can’t quite argue with that.

Not that you’d really want to, anyway. Little pulses of arousal prickle in your lower belly, sparking like embers in a fire that’s just begun to burn. You bite your lip, the rational part of your brain rivaling the more primitive parts, but in the end: the latter wins.

“…Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he presses, a little surprised, but you don’t miss the hint of excitement there. Cute. 

“Please.”

His hand shifts, far less innocent now, nudging your legs apart carefully, and you suck in a breath. “Just maybe not, y’know. Here.”

He stops, immediately, huffing a laugh against your neck, the sound low enough to have a shiver racing down your spine. He presses one last kiss to your shoulder, then pulls away, hands sliding across your body as he holds you in a sweet embrace.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath hovering by your ear. “Bed. I’ll grab a towel.”

All that newfound confidence dissipates the second you watch Sam place that dark, navy blue towel over the covers, slow and careful, like he’s not just protecting the sheets, but setting a stage. 

The movement pulls at his shoulders just right, every shift of those perfect muscles in his back catching in the dim light. He’s broad, beautiful, like he’s sculpted from the Gods in a way that’s downright unfair. You stare, of course you do—ogle, even—and the heat that pools low in your stomach dances right along with those insistent nerves, and that uncomfortable twisting feeling that won’t quite give you a rest.

By the time he’s finished smoothing the corners of that damned towel just right, your heart feels about ready to beat out of your chest. Your legs carry you to the bed without a lick of help from your brain, and when you finally sit, you almost feel… stiff. Not because of him. Never because of him. But because of, well. Everything else.

Still, you stay where you are. Reclined, waiting, and acutely aware of everything.

Like the way the sheets are cool under your back when you shift, lying reclined against the plush covers. Or the way the towel is softer beneath your hips, warmer where it brushes your bare skin. Your still-damp hair fans out across the pillow like a halo, ends tickling your shoulders, making every tiny movement send a spark down your spine. Your knees stay drawn in, thighs pressing together like that’ll do anything to quiet the pulse between them.

It doesn’t. Not when Sam turns, and looks at you like that.

He exhales, slow and measured, his gaze dragging over you in a quiet, almost languid way, like he’s savouring the view. There’s nothing rushed in it, and absolutely nothing careless. He takes his time, committing every detail to memory, filing back the way your fingers curl nervously into the blankets, the subtle tremble to your thighs.

His fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting some internal battle to hold himself back, before he finally steps closer. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he leans in, the shift subtle, but enough to make your breath stutter. 

Then his eyes find yours, and they soften.

Maybe not completely. The hunger is still there, unmistakable, burning just beneath the surface, but it slows. It turns careful in a way that makes your chest ache, and has your muscles releasing tension you weren’t even aware was present.

“Still okay?” he asks, quiet, hovering over you, his bangs tickling your forehead, and there’s something about the sound of his voice that has arousal twisting in your core like a cord about to snap. You swallow, nodding; more to keep yourself from letting out an embarrassingly blissful whine than anything. But oh, that’s not enough for him. He tuts at you, a slow exhale and ridiculous shake of his head, but his expression stays sweet enough to drown in.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sam. More than okay,” you breathe, and that’s the A-plus answer. One of his hands comes to rest over your knee, large and warm and oh so grounding. His thumb moves absentmindedly at first, soothing little circles over the swell of your thigh. Slowly, so damn slowly, it becomes more deliberate, dipping into the crease between your legs, fingertips brushing your inner thighs. Each pass is lighter than the last, like he’s coaxing you to melt, rather than just pulling them apart.

“Just relax…” he croons, his voice low, threaded with something so sweet, so him, that it just about hurts.

He bends over you then, careful of his weight, his body enveloping you completely, but without crowding. His lips press to your forehead first, gentle and lingering. Then to your temple. Your cheek. The tip of your nose. 

And when he finally reaches your lips, it isn’t rushed. It’s slow. Almost restrained at first, just the faintest brush, before deepening in a way that feels inevitable.

His lips slot against yours like they were made to, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, long fingers spanning over the expanse of your cheek. Sam’s kisses never feel confined to his lips, when he kisses: you feel it everywhere. That massive hand tilting your head back to give him more access, his nose smushing against your cheek when he presses you into the pillows, his bare chest brushing against yours as his lips move with a slow kind of fever. His hot tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, asking permission, and when you open up for him, he groans like it’s tearing him apart.

When your legs fall open, it’s of their own accord, your body melting into the kiss entirely, and it’s about the most ‘yes please’ response Sam could’ve asked for. His hand slips, dipping from your thighs to the pretty jut of your hip, shifting to your belly to take a needy handful of the softness there. He lets out a panty dropping hum of approval against your lips, sucking spit back through his teeth. “That’s it, beautiful. Openin’ up for me,” he murmurs, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, hot and wet with just a touch of perfect suction.

He pulls away only enough to blow a cool puff of air over that shiny little circle his lips left behind, making your body give a happy jolt, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the prickling sensation. He snickers at your shiver, the bastard, but then his fingers are wandering again. Lower this time. 

The first brush over the swell of your mound is featherlight, testing, but you’re so sensitive, that it already feels like you’re seconds away from falling apart (pathetic? Maybe. Not that he minds). His thumb brushes your clit, the softest of circles, and you’re pretty sure every coherent thought you’ve ever had falls straight out of your head. You must look a little stupid, going slack jawed, eyes glazed over, brows pulled in silent pleasure, but he doesn’t tease. Those thick fingers glide through your folds, spreading you open with his middle and index digits, his eyes trained on your cunt like it’s the prettiest view he’s ever seen.

You’re wet. Real fucking wet. A string of slick connects your pussy to his fingers as he pulls away just to shuffle himself back, and… oh. That pale, milky red hue clings to his fingers, glistening in the low light, your face growing hot in an instant. It’s just as mortifying as it is, put lightly, completely fucking erotic. Your expression twists into that of an embarrassed frown, just as Sam exhales roughly. But his expression… yeah. Not repulsed. Not even close. 

His jaw seems to tighten at the sight of that pink-streaked slick on his fingers, and you swear his pupils only dilate even further. His thumb finds your clit again, thick ripples of pleasure sparking from your core, rubbing precise and firm as his gaze finds yours. And when he sees that less than amused expression, you swear he bites back a grin. 

“It’s natural, baby.” His voice comes out butter-smooth, dripping with lust, damn near sultry. 

“It’s blood.”

Sam simply mm-hmm’s at that, unphased, free hand moving to splay over your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. Spreading you open for him, wide open, just as he goes right back to practically eye-fucking your dripping cunt. His fingers slide back through your folds, gathering more slick, spreading it slow and filthy. Coating you in your own wetness like he just needs to feel how soaked you really are. “Just makes you even more wet for me. So needy.”

You don’t get to think, let alone respond, before he dips lower and slides one thick finger inside, stretching you out just right, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit when he reaches the last knuckle. Your lashes flutter, eyes fighting to not roll straight back into your head as fire sparks and pulls at your core. “You think I give a damn about a little mess?” he pulls back, letting out a huff, just to thrust right back home with a second long digit to stuff you full. “Y’don’t gotta be nervous, honey. ‘M just gonna take good care of you, yeah? Make you feel alll better...”

You let out a whine at that, one that comes entirely involuntarily, slipping through parted lips. And oh, Sam loves it so much—he makes it his personal mission to hear a thousand more. Your legs fall further apart, knees thumping against the soft towel below, his tongue darting out to lick his lips like the sight of you spread before him has his mouth watering. His fingers pump in slow, rhythmic thrusts that squelch in the quiet room, just as he drags himself back just enough to lower himself between your parted thighs like he’s been waiting to do so all damn day.

His mouth drops to your ribs first, lips tickling just beneath your breasts, before drifting lower, lower, lower, until he’s smudging a sloppy-wet kiss below your navel. He groans, his breath hot and ragged against your belly, butterflies twisting deep in your core. “Fuck… look at you,” he rasps, smushing his lips against the inside of your thighs, sucking sweet red splotches, his shoulders spreading you impossibly wider. 

Those perfect, leather tough fingertips drag over that spot deep inside your pussy that makes your vision go white, your back bowing with a euphoric: “oh God, Sam!” 

Your own fingers thread through his hair, silky and still a tad damp, and there’s a part of your brain that screams at you to just pull him back up to your lips before he can reach his destination: but it’s damn near impossible to care about taboo when his tongue swipes its first long, deep lick from his fingers to your clit. 

It’s so good. Too good. Your hips jerk, chasing the feeling and shying away and oh God another pass comes, timed with a curl of his fingers that almost makes you sob. His free hand pins your hips down hard, keeping you from squirming away, and you’re sure that if he had it in him to come up for air: he’d probably be scolding you again.

Luckily for you, though, he’s addicted the second he gets that first taste. 

A low, appreciative noise rumbles from his chest as he laps at you, his tongue broad and hot and filthy, laving over your folds in wet circles that have you rattling out choked moans and pleas. His fingers pump steadily inside you, matching the flow of his mouth with Stanford-levels of accuracy, until your thighs tremble around his head and his name spills from your lips in a broken gasp.

The cramps that twisted and pulled at your core like they were trying to tear you apart? Forgotten. It’s hard to focus on pain when Sam dives right into your cunt like he’s starving, making wet, lewd slurping sounds that have your cheeks heating up and your stomach flipping. His fingers stuff you full, pausing their thrusts just to zero in on that spot—wrist rolling in circles as he presses again and again right fucking there. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sam, Sammy—ah, don’t stop,” you curse, and you don’t think once about pushing him away anymore. Instead? You only pull him closer. Your fist curls in his hair as you sling one leg over his shoulder, soft skin meeting the broad, hard muscle of his back.

He grunts approvingly in response, the vibration shooting through you like an electrical current, and you swear he almost sounds drunk. Like that tangy, coppery-taste he sucks from your core is the finest wine he’s ever gotten his greedy hands on. His tongue laps at you feverishly, swirling around your puffy clit, before sealing around it with those swollen lips like he’s trying to drink you down.

He doesn’t stop. Can’t. Not when his chin drips a shimmery red, not when your thighs squeeze by his ears, not when your voice breaks on his name. The rich combination of blood and slick slides down your thighs, soaking the towel beneath, staining the fabric with evidence of your need.

He smushes his face against you, so damn close that his nose scrunches against your mound, his lips suckling hard against your sensitive bundle, like even a lick of space is far too much. Inevitably, he has to part for a breath—but Sam doesn’t waste a single one.

“Wanna fuck y’like this, baby,” he babbles, curling his fingers, peppering an almost urgent kiss to your pussy between words. “Fuckin’ slippery wet. So good for me.” Kiss. “You’d let me?” Kiss. “Let me fuck you so good? Take all that pain away?” Kiss kiss. 

“Mmph… y-yeah,” you croak, thighs shaking so hard, you wonder if he’s already fucked you dumb. 

“Yeah? Yeah what?” he urges.

“Want—wan’ you to fuck me, Sammy, just like this. Please.”

He doesn’t answer at first, but he sure as hell groans, muffled, guttural, kitten licking your clit, tonguing at your folds to keep you spread open the way he wants you. One hand is still bruising on your hip, the other hooking talented fingers so perfectly against your sweet spot. His breath punches out in rough grunts, eyes closed like he’s savouring your taste. 

“I will,” he promises, sealing it with a broad lick that steals your breath. “Maybe not tonight, baby, but I will.”

His jaw flexes as he swallows around your clit, and you know it must be aching. You’re close, so fucking close, and he knows it: doubling down on his efforts like he wasn’t already one good vibration away from making you pass out into a messy puddle of ecstasy. 

“C’mon. Come f’me. Forget all ‘bout the pain, sweet girl.”

He finds that abused bud again. Sucks. Hums a moan like he’s seconds away from falling apart, just enough to make you jolt.

It doesn’t take much more than that.

Your climax washes over you, crashing down in wave after wave of pure, overwhelming pleasure. You writhe, sob, squirms pinned by his big hand still splayed over your hip, every word you try to speak dissolved into a slurred moan. Sam rides it out with you, fingers buried to the last knuckle, tongue swirling tight, until your body sags against the sheets, boneless and spent.

His fingers slip free after a moment, but apparently, Sam hasn’t quite gotten his fill. Because the second he does, he’s dragging his tongue right back through your oversensitive cunt, dipping into your weeping hole to really get a proper taste, right from the source.

You whine, stumbling out a ‘too much’, and it’s only then that he draws back. Slow, languid, licking his lips clean with a satisfied hum.

And oh. Oh God.

His chin, his fingers, God, even sliding down his neck—it’s all slick. Dripping. Stained a glistening reddish-pink, that seriously shouldn’t make you stupid levels of horny, and yet, somehow? It really fucking does.

“S-Sammy, you look… oh, fuck.”

He grins, shamelessly, looking a little more than proud, as he follows your eyes to his fingers, coated in red, shimmering as he raises them to his mouth. Without hesitation, his tongue swipes once, slowly, over his stained fingers, humming at the coppery-sweet flavour with a pleased hum.

Well, fuck.

You’re barely able to swallow back your moan when he leans in, boxing you against the pillows, hands skimming over your still-trembling thighs (and… yeah. He definitely left fingerprints).

“You taste real good, y’know,” he soothes, breath ghosting over yours. You can almost smell the metallic tang in his breath. “And… it looks like you’re feelin’ better, yeah?” he shifts, hands following a path across your body. So damn gentle, a featherlight touch. And when you nod, he smiles. “Good.”

You can’t even pretend to be surprised when he starts lowering himself right back down between your thighs. 

“Though… one trial’s never actually enough. Right, honey?”

AN: So, I asked for fluffy requests, because I thought maybe I wouldn’t end up writing way too much… just for me to start writing way too much. So, hopefully, I’ll finish that soon! I’d just started this one a while ago, and finally got around to finishing it.

Side note, sorry for not posting for almost a month. Life is kicking my ass… but! Hopefully I’ll finish up some more drafts.

Also! I figured out how to do the gradient thing, and will be overusing it now 😆

Dividers from @/cursed-carmine

And every time he asks, you swallow the real answer.

Because you’re not just crampy.

You’re feral. Everything aches in ways that have nothing to do with pain and everything to do with him.

You press your thighs together, frustrated. It’s embarrassing—at least you think so. You’ve had friends who called period sex “gross,” people who wrinkled their noses or made jokes. So you learned to keep quiet, keep your needs tucked away during that time of the month.

But Bucky is… Bucky. He doesn’t shy away from your messy parts. Still, saying it out loud? That’s another battle entirely.

You don’t notice him approaching until he crouches by the couch, brushing his knuckles over your cheek.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he says softly. “Even for a bad day.”

You try to keep your voice normal, casual. “Just tired. I’m fine.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. He knows you too well. Knows the difference between fine and I’m absolutely lying but please don’t look at me.

He tilts his head. “Want me to run you a bath?”

“No.”

“Warm compress?”

“No.”

“Want me to hold you?”

God, yes. But that’s not the problem.

You shake your head again.

Bucky rises a little, bracing one hand on the couch beside your hip so he’s leaning over you, close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Doll,” he murmurs, “talk to me. What do you need?”

You bury your face in the blanket. “You’ll think it’s gross.”

He laughs under his breath—soft, loving, like the idea is absurd. “Sweetheart, I’ve been in trenches. I’ve held people’s guts in with my hands. You think anything about you could be gross to me?”

Your cheeks burn. “It’s different.”

“Look at me,” he says gently.

You peek out. His eyes are warm, steady. Not teasing. Not impatient. Just waiting.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper. “I’m… really horny.”

Bucky blinks, then smiles slow and wicked—but not mocking. More like he’s flattered and pleased.

“That’s what you were scared to tell me?” he asks.

You nod, mortified.

“Baby,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face, “why would that ever embarrass you?”

“Because I’m on my period,” you mumble. “Some people think it’s—”

“I am not ‘some people.’” His voice comes out low, certain. “And nothing about your body disgusts me. Especially when it wants me.”

Your breath catches. “But it might be messy.”

“So?” He shrugs. “I don’t care about messes. I care about you.” His thumb traces your lower lip. “If you want me, you ask. If you need me, you tell me. That’s the deal.”

You look at him for a long moment, searching for even the smallest hint of hesitation. There’s none. Just desire and tenderness and that familiar stubborn devotion he carries like instinct.

Your voice goes small again. “I… want you.”

That’s all it takes.

Bucky scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the bedroom. He lies you down gently, treating you like your body is something sacred and soft, something he’s lucky to touch.

He kisses your thighs, your stomach, the waistband of your soft shorts.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmurs. “Tell me if you want slow or you want rough or you want my mouth first. I’m yours. Just tell me.”

You whimper, tugging him up to kiss you. “I just… need you close.”

“Close I can do.”

Bucky undresses you with careful hands, stripping slowly so you never feel rushed. When he finally settles between your legs, he kisses you again—deeper this time, needier—his hand cupping your cheek while the other slides down to rest on your hip.

“Let me make you feel good,” he whispers against your lips. “Let me take care of this.”

When he slips into you, he moves gently at first, testing, making sure you’re comfortable. You cling to him, grounding yourself in his warmth, his weight, the steady rhythm he sets.

“You feel incredible,” Bucky groans into your neck.

A flush rises in you—not embarrassment this time, but relief, want, gratitude.

“You don’t care?” you breathe.

He lifts his head so you can see the truth in his eyes. “The only thing I care about is you wanting me. Nothing else matters.”

You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, and he groans again—low, reverent.

“See?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Nothing gross about this. Nothing I wouldn’t give you. You need me?” He thrusts slowly, deliberately. “You tell me.”

And you do.

You tell him with every breathy moan, every cling of your hands, every shiver that runs through you when he whispers praise into your skin.

When you finally come, he holds you through it, kissing your temple, whispering, “Good girl, that’s it, I’ve got you.”

Afterward, he doesn’t pull away. He stays right there, chest pressed to yours, stroking your hair.

“You don’t ever hide that from me again,” he murmurs. “If your body wants me, I want it right back. Period or not.”

You smile into his shoulder, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And Bucky—your Bucky—kisses your forehead like a promise.

That weekend, you found yourself locked in your bedroom, clad in black lace as you kissed Ethan with his hands trailing along your skin. You occasionally caught his eyes darting to your laptop nearby as if he was watching the two of you from your viewers’ perspective. If the rock hard tent in his pants was any indication, he was enjoying it more than you thought he would.

You craned your neck to see the screen, only able to catch a glimpse of your best friend’s hand squeezing your ass cheek, his head leaning against your side as he read the chat. You felt his fingers trail along the lacy edge of your panties as he uttered “The prettiest ass ever…” before pressing a kiss to your collarbone.

Ethan looked up, his hand completely still on your ass. There was a shine in his eyes you had never seen in him before. Enamorment.

You leaned in and met him in another sloppy kiss, your own hand carding through the curls of his hair. He groaned against your lips and pulled you closer, making you brush against his clothed cock . When you pulled away to breathe, you shifted in his lap, sinking onto your backside and turning back to face the camera. Ethan smirked, once again glancing to the laptop before pulling your legs apart to show off your clothed cunt.

His hand slid down, palming your heat and, to your surprise, his thumb circling your clit as if he knew your anatomy inside and out.

“She’s already so wet, chat.” he teased, index finger teasing the slicked fabric. The tip pushed forward, dipping into your pussy as much as your panties would allow. He groaned with a soft kiss to your hair, “Fuck, always knew you’d be tight….”

Without warning, he pulled your underwear aside and admired your glistening skin through the screen. You sucked your lip when he finally touched your clit. Fuck, you were never this sensitive on camera before. At least not before an orgasm…But Ethan’s touch alone was enough to make your body want to close around his hand, to swallow him whole.

“Fuck…” you sigh, chasing after Ethan’s warmth as he pushed two fingers in.

“You’re suckin’ me in, sweetie,” he said with a smile, pumping agonizingly slow. “I could get addicted.”

His thumb reconnected with your clit as the pads of his fingers pushed up in you. His free hand snuck up your side and grabbed your tit, teasing the nipple through thin lace. Your own fell to his lap, stroking his cock through his pants.

“Fuck, you’re huge…” you muttered.

Ethan smirked as his fingers began to move faster, “You know what they say about shy guys, babe.”

Suddenly, his fingers slipped out of your heat, beelining to his sweats and yanking them down enough to free his swollen cock. He pumped it, wetting it with your arousal. “Never been so hard in my life. You do that to me, pretty.” he said, planting a small nip to your ear.

His hand quickly abandoned his length and returned back to your pussy, easily pushing back in and thrusting again. Your slick coated the digits and only seemed to make them piston faster into you, each pump accompanied by a wet ‘pap’.

Your own hand fell to his cock, wrapping your fingers around the stiff length and pumping as often as you could muster. The thumb on your clit made it hard to think.

The pads of Ethan’s fingers brushed against the sensitive spot inside you, eliciting a gasp from your bruised lips as your hips writhed under his arm. “Fuck Ethan…”

“That good, baby?” he cooed, almost low enough for the microphone to not detect it. “Right there?”

You nodded. “There…Don’t stop.” Your hand squeezed his cock a smidge tighter and caused him to groan. His thumb pressed a little harder on your clit, angling his fingers up to hit your g-spot every time.

“Come for me, baby. Show ‘em how pretty you are when you come.”

As if his words were a switch, helped by a particularly good swirl to your clit, your toes dug into the floor, body tensing and pulsing as the wave of your orgasm hit. Your eyes were shut tight as you moaned, pliant against Ethan’s shoulder as he kept fucking you through it.

You barely registered the loud wet smacks coming from you.

“Fuck, she’s a squirter~” Ethan teased to your audience with a shit eating grin, still casually swirling his fingers around your clit.

He only stopped when your hand left his cock and tapped his thigh, the signal you had established in lieu of a safe word. His fingers practically flew out of your dripping pussy and Ethan pressed a soft, breathless kiss to your hair, whispering as his wet hand massaged your thigh, “Good girl. You’re so pretty, baby.”

JAKE 𑣲

You sprawled out on the soft woven mat inside Jake's private tent, the dim glow of vines casting faint light over your naked bodies. Jake hovered above you, his blue frame filling the space, his yellow eyes full with desire.

He positioned himself between your legs, his cock nudging against your entrance before he pushed in slowly, stretching your pussy wide open.

The sensation made you gasp loudly, your voice bouncing off the tent walls. "Jake, oh Eywa, feels so good," you moaned.

His ears twitched at the sound. "Ma'yawntutsyip (little one), you gotta keep it down," he murmured. But you couldn't help it as he started thrusting, another cry escaped your lips.

"I can't...it's too much!" Your hands clutched at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

Jake's tail curled around your thigh, pulling you closer as he leaned down. He captured your mouth in a firm kiss, his lips sealing yours to muffle the noise.

His tongue tangled with yours, while his hips snapped forward, his cock filling you completely with each plunge. You whimpered into the kiss, your body arching up to meet him.

He broke away just enough to whisper against your lips, "Shh, or the whole clan will hear. Focus on me."

His large hand slid up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple roughly, distracting you from the urge to scream.

You tried to respond, but his mouth claimed yours again, his fangs lightly nipping your lower lip. His thrusts grew faster, his balls slapping against your ass, the wet sounds of your cunt taking him echoing softly.

"Jake, please!” you managed to gasp when he pulled back for air, but he shook his head, eyes stern yet affectionate.

"Quiet now, yawne (beloved). Let me take care of you." He shifted his weight, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your moans turned to muffled sobs against his shoulder as you bit down on his skin, trying to obey. His free hand gripped your hip, guiding your movements, while he fucked you relentlessly.

Sweat slicked both of you, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. When the orgasm hit, you cried out into his neck, the sound vibrating against him without carrying far.

Jake growled low, his own release following as he pumped hot cum deep into your cunt, holding you tight through the waves. He didn't release the kiss until your body stilled.

"That's my girl," he said with a grin, brushing a braid from your face.

LO’AK 𑣲

Lo’ak dragged you into the dense underbrush of the hidden grove, far from the clan's prying eyes. He pressed you back against a rough tree trunk, his hands roaming your body.

Lifting one of your legs, he aligned his hard cock with your cunt and thrusted in without warning, the sudden fullness ripping a sharp yelp from your throat.

"Lo’ak!" you cried, your voice carrying through the leaves.

He smirked, but his eyes darted around. "Skxawng (idiot), keep it quiet or we'll get caught," he hissed, though his hips didn't stop, pounding into you with.

You bit your lip, but another moan slipped out as his ridged length dragged along your inner walls. "I can't help it, you feel so good," you whined, your fingers tangling in his braids, pulling him closer.

Lo’ak's tail lashed behind him, a sign of his excitement, but he clamped his hand over your mouth firmly, his palm warm and calloused against your skin. "Siltsan (calm) be quiet.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours, yellow eyes locking on as he fucked you harder. You bucked against him, your free hand clawing at his back, but his grip held muffling your cries into soft hums.

"That's better," he murmured, his thumb tracing your jawline teasingly. His other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles, making your eyes roll back.

You tried to speak, "Lo’ak, m’close..." but it came out garbled against his hand.

He chuckled, the cocky edge to his personality evident. "Yeah? Then cum for me. Don't want my Dad busting us."

The tree bark scraped your back with each thrust, his balls smacking your ass rhythmically. Your body trembled, pussy clenching around him as pleasure built. He quickened his pace, grunting with effort, his tail wrapping around your waist to steady you.

When you came, your scream vibrated against his palm, tears streaming down your cheeks from the intensity. Lo’ak followed with a stifled groan, his cum flooding your cunt in hot spurts.

He eased his hand away slowly, kissing the red mark it left on your cheek. "See? You can do it," he teased, pulling out and helping you stand on shaky legs.

NETEYAM 𑣲

In the quiet seclusion of the family hut after everyone else had gone to sleep, Neteyam guided you to the low bench. He turned you around gently, bending you over the edge, his hands steady on your hips.

Sliding his thick cock into your cunt from behind, he filled you inch by inch, drawing a loud gasp from you. "Neteyam, oh, it's so deep," you moaned.

"Shh, ma yawntu (my lover), no noise," he whispered firmly. As he began thrusting, you couldn't stifle another cry.

"I know, b-but it feels incredible," you pleaded softly, pushing back against him.

Neteyam reached forward without hesitation, slipping two fingers into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue to gag you effectively.

"Suck on them, stay quiet for us," he instructed. You complied, your lips wrapping around his digits, slurping softly as his hips picked up speed.

His cock plunged deeper and deeper, his balls tapping your thighs hitting every sensitive spot.

You rocked back, craving more. You mumbled around his fingers, "Mmm, Neteyam..." but the words dissolved into wet sounds.

He leaned over you, his chest to your back, breath warm on your neck. "Good girl, you're doing so well. We can't wake the others." His free hand roamed to your breast, squeezing firmly, pinching your nipple.

Neteyam's thrusts grew more insistent, his control slipping just enough to show his passion, but he remained composed. Juices trailed down your legs, your pussy fluttering wildly around him.

When your orgasm approached, you gagged harder on his fingers, body convulsing in silence, waves of pleasure crashing without a sound.

He pulled out carefully, flipping you onto your back on the bench. Removing his fingers, he let you catch your breath as you whispered, "That was intense."

Neteyam stroked your cheek, then stroked his cock, cumming across your stomach in thick ropes. "You were perfect," he said softly, cleaning you up with a cloth.

QUARITCH 𑣲

Quaritch's quarters aboard the base were stark and functional, much like the man himself. He sat bare on the edge of the bed (one made specifically for him since turning into an avatar), pulling you onto his lap to straddle him.

You sank down onto his thick cock, the intrusion making you throw your head back with a loud moan. "Quaritch, you're huge!" you gasped, starting to rock your hips.

His eyes narrowed, the colonel in him demanding control. "Quiet down, sweetheart. Walls are thin here," he growled, his voice gravelly and commanding.

But as you bounced faster, another cry escaped. "I can't it-it’s so good," you whimpered, hands on his broad chest for leverage.

Without a word, Quaritch's large hand shot up, clamping over your mouth, fingers pressing into your cheeks to seal your lips. "Hush now, that's an order," he said, smirking as his hips bucked up to meet yours, his cock slamming deep into your cunt.

You whined against his palm, with watering eyes, but the pressure only fueled your arousal. His other hand dug into your ass, spreading you open for deeper penetration.

Sweat beaded on his scarred skin, your breasts heaving with each motion. "Mmmph," you tried to say his name, but it muffled into nothing.

He leaned forward, his mouth finding your neck, teeth sinking in just hard enough to bite, a sharp sting that made you jolt without sound.

"Good girl, take it," he murmured against your skin, his free arm wrapping around your waist to control the pace, fucking up into you relentlessly.

The bunk creaked under the force, your clit grinding against his pelvis. Tears streamed from the overwhelming pleasure, your body trembling on the edge.

Quaritch's grip tightened, his eyes locked on yours. When you came, your body shook violently, the scream trapped behind his hand, pussy milking his cock.

He thrusted a few more times, groaning low as he emptied his hot cum into you, filling you to the brim.

His long, blue fingers cup your chin gently, holding you in place, forcing you to watch. And though you are the one with Neteyam’s cock shoved in you— a vessel for his desire and lust,  driven deep against your cervix, it is Lo’ak who looks utterly destroyed. Wild hair sticking to his forehead and his neck, black pupils in his golden eyes blown wide beneath heavy eyelids, rivulets of sweat tracing down his chest as he watches his brother take what he’s only ever dared to dream of.

You can see the desperate throb of his length from where you are being taken. Flushed and leaking, hands clenched into fists at his sides, forced to remain in such a short, agonizing distance away from you.

A kiss to your shoulder pulls your focus back to the man holding you. A cry falls from your lips when he grinds his hips forward. That particular movement was slow and punishingly deep. But oh, does he dive even deeper into you.

“Tell him,” Neteyam breathes into your ear, his hand sliding down to your throat. His thumb strokes the line of your pulse with a kind of possessiveness anyone would mistake as tenderness. It’s like an anchor; his silent command for your total obedience. He roughly gathers your breast, first to squish the soft tissue and slapping his fingers against your nipples until they start to sting. That’s when he finally catches the peaks between his fingers and he pinches hard.

“Tell him how much better I take care of you. How much better my cock makes you feel.”

Neteyam’s hand then goes back to your throat, hips snapping into her with renewed, aggressive vigor.

“Tell him.”

A strangled moan is what comes out when you try to repeat after him, your hips bucking instinctively, spine now pushed into an arch. The grip around your neck tightens, hard enough to make your senses swim, your breathing uneven as the head of his cock repeatedly kisses that soft spot deep inside of you. “It’s— Neteyam! He’s… he’s fucking me s-so— so much better!”

The guttural growl that rips from Neteyam’s throat is downright animalistic.

His free hand reaches down, his thumb finding the sensitive heat of your center and rubbing in agonizing circles. Between the rapidly diminishing supply of air, the sting on your chest, and the relentless stretching of your core, your mind nearly fractures under the sensory assault.

“Oh my god,” you cry out, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts.

“Yeah?” he snarls, “Are you going to let me cum in you?”

Your body begins to seize as the high wave washes over you, eyes rolling back. Through your fragmented sobs, he catches the sweet, sincere sounds of you begging for his seed. Such a cute prayer of desperation tumbling from your lips for him to leave a part of him inside you.

“You want me to, don’t you, little brother?” he goads, “You want me to cum in her, watch how pretty her pussy looks when it’s overflowing and twitching for more. 

“Yeah? This pussy making this dick feel good?”

Clark is beat red, stuttering a nod. Still refusing his whimpers allow him to utter even a word of profanity.

“Gosh.. I’m inside you so deep already. These hips… I can’t—”

“C’mon, be a naughty boy for me. Say you’ve been missing this pussy,” you ground down in circles. His pillowy balls pulse while they’re pressing up against your clit. “Say you’ve been a dirty, naughty boy, thinking about taking mommy’s pussy.”

Clark shudders and waits a minute to gather up the courage. Takes deep breaths with little moans trailing the end of them when he repents and follows orders. “I’ve—I’ve been a naughty boy. I’ve been thinking about mommy’s pussy all day long,” he heaves. Kissing lines down your jaw while you tighten around him and destroy all his willpower in beats. “Been thinking of having sex with this—with this pussy, how it makes me feel so good. I could cum right now, but m’gonna be a good boy and hold it.”

“That’s a good boy, being so perfect for mommy. You think her pussy looks good on you?”

“So…. so amazing, looks so wonderful while you ride. Wanna cum. Wanna cum while I’m inside.”

“Say this makes you wanna nut. Say you wanna bust your nut in this pussy.”

“Oh… oh that’s so dirty,” he whimpers, his own hips going wild while you meet him in the middle with a slamming pace. Liquid even splashes between your conjoining parts, obscene while Clark blushes from watching you shape circles his dick.

“Say it for mommy, be a dirty boy for mommy.”

Clark knows he leaks and adds to the mess while staring down at his lap getting ravaged, taking a deep shaky breath while his dark sweaty hair sticks to his forehead.

“I… I wanna bust a nut in mommy’s pussy, wanna make her gush, hmmm that’s gonna make it happen faster,” Clark whines. Feeling your ass shake while you vigorously ride. “Fuuuuu…. I’m your naughty boy, always gonna give you this naughty dick— feel so dirty getting to do this to you — you’re about to make me nut.”

You smile with an almost sinister looking glint twinkling in your eye at getting him to break. At fucking him so good he loses any sense of his good boy control. You see stray little tears stream quietly down his cheeks, holding onto you with nearly bruising strength. Breathing whines to himself while your pussy clenches and creams all over him in a dreamy flood.

“What a good boy, good fucking boy,” you praise with each word emphasized in a heavy slam of your hips, squelching even more obnoxious and obvious than before. “Cum in this pussy, naughty baby, you’re gonna feel so good when you let go.”

Clark cries out as his face scrunches up, whimpering while his balls shrivel up in preparation.

“I’m… mommy, mommy I’m gonna—“

“Shh, that’s it. Bust while you’re stuffed in mommy’s pussy. It’s okay. Thaaaat’s it. Doesn’t that feel so good?”

Clark is clenching his jaw and letting out more pathetic pleads when his cum starts barreling out and dripping around him as he stays lodged inside you. It leaks from the rim all around him while you keep bouncing, no room in you left while his cock still keeps you filled so nice and full.

Runny yet thick and bubbly, it rains out of you while he pulses and closes his eyes through the sensitive aftershock rounds. He’s still flustered with puppy dog eyes from the words he let leave his lips. Feels some shame at how he can’t seem to control himself when he’s around you.

“I’m gonna make a swear jar for you just so you don’t feel so guilty baby,” you coo in his ear before kissing him slow and sweet. “You’re always so good for mommy.”

That seemed to be what makes having such a potty mouth worth it for him.

“That’s all I wanna be.”

-

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thinking of him being a preacher boy type that wasn’t raised to say anything dirty then having a partner that bosses him around and rides him so hard he lets loose ffghghhhj